Wedge Antilles frowned and loosened his collar, running a finger between his shirt and skin, separating the two from their sweaty arrangement.
There were many things he despised about being grounded, but atmosphere and sunlight were quickly becoming top contenders. Plus, from a purely administrative perspective, people became lazy when they're slowly roasting from the inside-out.
And it'd been quiet. Eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that generally settled over things when small children, or bored pilots, were getting into trouble.
Decidedly bored, but mostly curious, he peeled himself from his chair and exited into the hall, searching for the inevitable disaster.
Unsurprisingly, he toured the facility for a short while without finding a single being. Administrative droids whirred about, mechanically executing their day-to-day programming without alarm. He stopped one.
"Three-dee, where is everyone?"
"General Antilles." The droid nodded, gears clicking. "Major Janson is conducting a mandatory inspection in hanger dorn-twelve. All units are in attendance, lest they be written up for failing inspection."
"I see." Wedge tapped his foot. "Three-dee, what vehicles are currently housed in hanger dorn-twelve?"
"Hanger dorn-twelve currently houses facility maintenance equipment, General. Compressors. Garden tools. Paint. Pesticides. Power washers-"
"Thank you, Three-dee." Wedge interrupted, images of hot-pink x-wings, compressed explosives and other misuses of equipment flashing through his mind.
"Solvents. Transport vehicles. Water transport vech-" The droid continued as Wedge exited the building.
He didn't need to look very hard to find the excitement. A high-noon sun beat down on him as he followed lines of hoses, stemming from several buildings, toward one in particular. As he neared the hanger, he heard raucous laughter and effeminate screams of joy.
A wall of humidity hit him as he opened the door; senses assaulted by smells of wet duracreet and sunblock. He stared at the scene, tilting his head to the side.
Various military staff paraded around the hanger in standard-issue skivvies, dripping wet and laughing as they ducked through curtains of water generated by inverted power washers. A few recognizable faces splashed around in a shallow wave-pool, turbulence generating from quickly inflating and deflating life-rafts at opposite ends of emergency water basins. Another group of humanoids, Tycho curiously included, floated, carefully watching the fray from above in their water-transport tanks.
In the midst of the debauchery Janson saluted, sporting an inflated water-fowl about his waist. "Welcome to Dorn Under, the New Republic Waterworks."
"Did you... Are those..." Wedge felt his mouth agape and snapped it shut when two scantily clad young women ran past him.
"The babes they hide in accounting?" Wes smiled. "Yes, yes they are."
Wedge pointed. "Are those ... power washers?"
"I prefer 'Pleasure Fountains.'"
He pointed again. "What did you do to Tycho?"
"Alas, his allegiance was purchased with the promise of a personal heated jaccuzi."
Wedge shook his head. Unable to form an appropriate scolding, he opted for an Antilles disapproving-yet-wholly-amazed eyebrow raise.
"Relax, Wedge. The floating circus will be gone tomorrow." Wes promised, plucking a towel of a passing devorian and offering it to his commanding officer. "In the meantime, I should remind you that it is posted: shoes and shirts are not permitted poolside. Shape up, General."
Slowly, Wedge relinquished his personal effects.
"Now, go have fun, sir. That's an order."